


I just fell in love, and I couldn't help myself

by orphan_account



Series: Please don't stand so close to me [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the record, starting the new school year off with a vivid pattern of bruises at the base of his neck and along his collar bones? Totally not Stiles’s plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I just fell in love, and I couldn't help myself

**Author's Note:**

> This happened because my dash included a gifset of Ezra and Aria from _Pretty Little Liars_ , and I was so intrigued that I had to go and watch some videos of their relationship on youtube, because even though I don't watch the show, the two of them are strangely compelling. The title for this comes from The Belle Brigade's _Sweet Louise_ , because I have _The First Time_ on the brain, and because I think it fits.

For the record, starting the new school year off with a vivid pattern of bruises at the base of his neck and along his collar bones? Totally not Stiles’s plan. He has to iron the collar of his flannel overshirt in order to make sure it lays _just so_ , covering the marks - and they _are_ marks, because the lips that made them did so with a possessive fervor that leaves Stiles breathless even now - up, and he has to be absolutely sure that the straps of his backpack do not pull everything down.  
  
Because he found the person of his dreams last night. He wasn’t looking for love - or even just plain old sex, much as he wanted to no longer be a virgin - and now he almost wishes it hadn't happened, because the odds are that he will never see this person again.  
  
He checks himself in the side mirror before standing straight up and shutting the jeep door. He makes his way up to the building with reluctance slowing his every step, and wonders if the other students can tell, looking at him, that something amazing happened to him last night. Probably not. The bags under his eyes and the wistfulness of them as they watch the path his feet take to the front steps of the school building more likely than not make him look as though he longs for the return of the last few days of summer, rather than the touch of warm hands and soft lips.  
  
Still, he shakes himself as he digs out the schedule he picked up the week before, searching for his first period class. It’s Pre-calculus, and he allows himself a miserable groan, knowing that having his hardest class at the start of the day will make this semester a million times harder than it would be otherwise.  
  
Things go fairly well for the first few periods of the day. Jackson Whittemore only makes one asshole remark about Stiles in their English class. Scott waxes lyrical about Allison Argent all throughout lunch, exactly like he did the year before. Then comes fourth period AP US History.  
  
Stiles makes his way there from the cafeteria with far more energy than he used during the first half of the day. He sits down toward the back of the room and exchanges a friendly greeting with Isaac Lahey, who has grown significantly more confident since the year before. Stiles has no idea what happened to him, but he’s glad the guy no longer looks so skittish all the time. Then, the class quiets down and Stiles glances up to the front to see what has arrested everyone’s attention. His heart stops beating for a second or two, and then it picks itself up and runs.  
  
He knows those eyes, that hair and jawline.  
  
Staring back at him is the dry, sarcastic, slightly acerbic person Stiles met last night in the bar the next town over.  
  
As full lips part and announce in that velvet-warm voice, “Welcome to AP US History,” Stiles feels the world fall away. Instead of the harsh light of the classroom, he sees the low lamps of the bar and hears the soft rock playing in the background, feels the barstool beneath him, the coolness of the bottle of beer his new and improved fake ID managed to get him. He registers the faint shock of someone coming up to sit beside him, favoring him with an openly intrigued look when he glances over. Stiles actually has to look behind himself to make sure that look is for him.  
  
There’s no one else there.  
  
He turns back and grins at his companion with a renewed sense of confidence, then makes an attempt at conversation. To his everlasting surprise, it works. His companion may not be the most gregarious of individuals, but Stiles’s opening gambit of discussing the current economy - which he hears all about at home and researches extensively on his own, because his father hates all of the budget cuts he is having to make to the department, and because Stiles wants to know if there is even a point in applying to Stanford without concrete assurance of scholarships to fund his way - somehow leads to them discussing the taxes that eventually led to the American Revolution, and wondering whether or not Texas will ever make good on its threat to secede from the Union. Somewhere along the way, a hand starts rubbing along his thigh, and the one responsible asks lowly, “Do want to get out of here? We could go to my place. There’s boxes all over the apartment because I just moved here, but -” Stiles speaks up before he has the chance to chicken out, earning himself a pleased grin.  
  
They half-run to the apartment complex just across the street and then stumble into the apartment, barely managing to lock the door behind themselves. After that, everything becomes a blur of clothing flying about the hallway leading to the bedroom, made nearly impossible by the way their lips are practically soldered together, and the way they cannot keep their hands away from each others’ flushed and sweat-soaked skin. Stiles falls to the bed and laces their hands together, tugging until his partner follows him down.  
  
Everything is new and overwhelming, and Stiles takes it all in with wide eyes. He swears there is a moment where the eyes gazing back at him _glow_ , but then it fades, and he is tumbling down, down, down from the high of his release.  
  
He stays for as long as he can reasonably get away with, and then he lays a kiss on a sleep-warm cheek before slipping into the clothes he finds on his way back out the door.  
  
The world comes back to him in a rush as the teacher finishes telling the class, “I’m Mr. Hale.”  
  
Stiles swallows audibly.  
  
Junior year just got a whole lot more complicated.


End file.
